


Do you want a line of this?

by darkandstormyslash



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: British History, British Politics, Gen, Gratuitous Swearing, occasional gay OCs, pre-millennium optimism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-07
Updated: 2017-12-11
Packaged: 2019-02-11 22:21:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12945252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkandstormyslash/pseuds/darkandstormyslash
Summary: Following the backstory of Malcolm Tucker and Jamie McDonald from a pair of bickering reporters for the Glasgow Herald right up to running Communications for the PM from number 10. Featuring the defeat of the John Major government, Steve Fleming, and a whole lot of swearing.





	1. I THOUGHT THAT YOU WERE JOKING

It’s a day of triumph, a day of celebration. Thursday 2nd May 1997 is the day of Malcolm’s first and greatest win. The day the political party he supports and believes in wins everything, the day that Malcolm comes as close as he’s ever come to losing everything.

Steve Fleming. Steve _fucking_ Fleming.

Whenever he falters again or finds himself weakening; expecting the best of people, trusting a common goal or itching for a beer, he remembers that day.

Thursday 2nd May.

1997.

* * *

 

ONE: I THOUGHT THAT YOU WERE JOKING

Making the move down to London is a big step, a fucking big step, and it’s all the fault of John Major. Back then, in the heady days of the late 80s, Malcolm is a fiery reporter for the Glasgow Herald and Jamie is the hack investigator who sleeps behind the bins. When Margaret Thatcher resigns they go on a bender that lasts several days. Malcolm writes celebratory articles, he can’t even remember them now, banging away at the keys of his old typewriter in a crazed alcoholic haze with Jamie screeching garbled sentences and mispronounced slogans out of the attic window until even the junkie downstairs complains about the noise.

It doesn’t matter that Thatcher has been replaced by John Major with no discernible change in policies. It doesn’t matter that the flat is small, and old, and shit. It doesn’t matter that the roof leaks, the heating doesn’t work, and one of the landlord’s goons once smacked Jamie in the face for complaining about the rent hike. What matters is that they are here, and this is now and finally, _finally_ the political landscape is starting to shift.

Malcolm sticks a damp cigarette into the corner of his ear and knocks back another can of cheap beer. “This is it, this is where things change, this is where we ram it up the fuckers arses so far they’ll be spitting blue. She’s _out_.”

He can’t remember much of those days, but he does remember being fueled primarily by hate. He’s reactive, contrary, angry, and spittingly mad. He’s not thinking of solutions back then, only attacking. He wants the Tories out and he doesn’t even particularly care who gets in. Jamie’s more political than Malcolm, in that Jamie at least belongs to a political party. If the anarchist group that meets behind the old warehouse can be considered political _party_. Malcolm is a frenzied political movement of one.

“You should come along to one of the anarchist ones.” Jamie offers. “You want to make a difference don’t you?”

“I do make a difference.” Malcolm snaps back, dropping cigarette ash all over the typewriter.

“You write shitty newspaper columns nobody reads.”

“You break windows nobody will fix. Don’t pretend you’re so fucking superior.”

Two weeks later, the anarchists stage a demonstration and Jamie ends up in the police station. Malcolm pawns the typewriter to bail him out, coming down to the station to shove the crumpled notes into the fat grasping hand of a laughing security guard. It’s a learning moment for both of them, a shock of reality. Malcolm grimly picks up a pen and tries to modify his handwriting into something readable. Jamie moodily carries the empty bottles that litter their room back to the plant and tries to negotiate money for them.

“We can’t live here.” He says when he returns, looking around the flat as if properly seeing it for the first time. There’s one mattress on the floor, Malcolm’s desk, and a small kitchen area consisting of a broken oven, encrusted-hobs and a few cupboards filled with various alcoholic drinks. “This is a shithole Malc’.”

“Always has been. We can’t afford to move.”

The next week, Malcolm comes back to the flat with a stack of leaflets for the Scottish Labour party. Jamie eyes them dubiously, pretty sure they stand for everything he doesn’t, “What’s this?”

“Stick them in the envelopes and start fucking delivering.” Malcolm snaps, not looking at him.

“The anarchists catch me with this shit, they’ll slap the fuck out of me.” Malcolm being political seems like a joke, some sort of bizarre game that he must be playing for his own benefit. “What happened, you lose a bet or something?”

“We’re losing a lot more than that.” Malcolm growls, and Jamie decides not to ask. Something seems to have changed in Malcolm’s mind, maybe when he bailed Jamie out, maybe when he had to pawn the typewriter. Previously, Malcolm has just been a little ball of fury spinning on his own axis. Now he appears to be spinning around something else, dragged into the orbit of a larger star.

Jamie dutifully posts leaflets, attends meetings, and tries to avoid the anarchists. They have even less money now, because Malcolm isn’t writing as many articles, and the ones he does write he can’t type up. They live off spite, beer, and floppy sandwiches from the soft-spoken young man in the cardigan who runs the Labour meetings.

Malcolm’s still writing, even if Jamie’s not sure why anymore. Scrawls of paper, scrawls of addresses and information over photocopied bits from the library. He’s always down in the library nowadays, when he’s not at the Labour office. Jamie watches him as he talks to the soft young cardigan-man, eyebrows raised as cardigan-man giggles and simpers and rests his hand on Malcolm’s arm.

“Is he a pouf?” Jamie demands.

Malcolm shrugs, “Probably.”

“Definitely.”

“Does it matter?” Malcolm turns on him suddenly, eyes staring, and Jamie backs away feeling suddenly unsure.

“I dunno, Malc’, does it? It does to a lot of people, doesn’t it?”

“It does to _them_.” Malcolm spits out.

Jamie is pretty sure if Margaret Thatcher had made suicide illegal Malcolm would have killed himself out of sheer contrariness.

Malcolm is learning, and over the next two years he learns a lot, sucking in knowledge from the surroundings like a malevolent political black hole. The flat fills up with books, most of them lent from Cardigan Man and returned in a less than perfect state, and photocopied articles from the library. Cardigan Man even gets Malcolm’s typewriter out of hock, but instead of writing articles, Malcolm now writes letters. Letters, and circulars, for every newspaper except the one that’s paying him. Jamie tries to cover the shortfall, and there’s a good few months where they work in tandem – the typewriter clicking ceaselessly day and night from two pairs of fingers. Jamie sleeps while Malcolm types, and writes while Malcolm’s out. Malcolm doesn’t appear to sleep at all.

Then John Major calls an election, and Malcolm’s energy ratchets up another level. Any spare time he has is now spent campaigning, walking around the streets of Glasgow trying to talk politics on any doorstep that will listen. Jamie waits up nervously, addresses the letters Malcolm no longer has time to, and makes multiple mugs of strong coffee for both Malcolm and Cardigan Man, who is now obsessed with maps covered in coloured dots.

“This is it…” Malcolm mutters, trying to type and read at the same time. “This is it, Jamie. This is where we make a difference.”

Jamie nods reassuringly. He’s starting to hope that John Major loses not through any political leanings, but purely for the sake of Malcolm’s health. Malcolm is pouring his heart and soul into this campaign, his very blood running red right through it. Jamie isn’t sure what will happen if John Major stays in power.

“He won’t.” Malcolm scoffs, “Who’d vote for that fucking stuffed shirt? He’s the most boring man in the history of politics.”

Jamie’s never bothered to stay up to watch election results before, he’s not 100% convinced he’s ever even voted at a general election. This time he’s dragged along to the Labour Party Hall, making more cups of coffee and watching as Malcolm and Cardigan Man shout and support respectively, until there’s no more time for activity, and only time for watching and waiting.

Malcolm drinks the whole way through. When John Major wins the election to take the fourth consecutive Tory term in office, he picks up the whiskey bottle and downs the rest of it.

Jamie is expecting anger, privately he’s rather wondering whether Malcolm will take a swing at Cardigan Man who is, after all, the man who dragged Malcolm into politics only to let it so rudely tear his heart out of his body. Instead Malcolm just goes quiet, drinking steadily until he keels over, and Jamie and Cardigan Man carry him back to the flat together.

“Will he be alright?” Cardigan Man frets, and Jamie shrugs, throwing a blanket over Malcolm’s body and trying to ignore the way Cardigan Man’s gaze lingers on the solitary mattress.

“We’re not sleeping together, ay?” Jamie snaps finally.

Cardigan Man flushes, and beats a hasty retreat.

When Malcolm wakes up, there’s a bucket by the bed ready. He’s sick for most of the morning, finally staggering up with red-rimmed eyes and a sunken face to where Jamie is crouched by the kitchen cupboards like a malevolent brownie.

“Fuck, what time is it.” Malcolm gasps, his throat scraped raw with bile.

“After midday.”

“We lost then.”

“Aye. They lost.”

“We lost.” Malcolm, looks blearily around the flat. “Well fuck all that. We’ll move.”

Jamie blinks, wondering if Malcolm means moving house, moving country or possibly leaving the earth entirely. “Move where?”

“We can’t make a difference here – fuck have you got an aspirin? – so we’ll move somewhere we can.”

Jamie stares at him. Malcolm looks like a cadaver at the best of times, but now he looks like a cadaver that died of something particularly unpleasant and poisonous. His face is sunken in, his body hunched and Jamie thinks he can almost see the bones in his fingers, pressing against flesh.

“How can we make any difference?” Jamie asks bleakly, and too his surprise Malcolm gives a big ghastly smile.

“We can make all the difference we need, alright? We can’t do it here, that was always a fucking bad idea, wasn’t it? I can’t knock on every damn door in Glasgow. We need to get out to them, but we also need to get _in._ In to that poisonous suppurating boil that sits at the heart of this whole fucking country. We need to get to London.”

Jamie’s eyebrows raise in surprise. “London?”

“Yep, London. As soon as I can fucking stand up, alright? And we’re taking the typewriter.”

So because of John Major, they go to London.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go! I've been wanting to write this for ages. The title, and all the chapter headings, are taken from Pulp's "Cocaine Socialism" which you can watch here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7b7DgOeMnW4 and which rather nicely captures the general feel of New Labour.


	2. BUZZIN' ALL THE TIME

They do slightly better in London, because one of the many things Malcolm has been doing over the last few months has been writing letters and articles for the Mirror, and they’re happy enough for him to come down and keep doing it in London. Malcolm has also spoken to Cardigan Man, who doesn’t know anything about London, but knows some blokes in Manchester who do, and they know some lads in London who know a place in Soho where Malcolm and Jamie can crash.

It’s a single room with a single bed in a shared house, and if the room is smaller than the one they’ve left behind at least it’s cleaner. The shared kitchen is fully functional, and despite an initial irritated hissy fit at Malcolm, Jamie eventually gets used to the fact that the other rooms contain a raging theatre queen called Tristan, a gay couple, and narcissistic gogo dancer who spends the entire time he isn’t working in his room with the door locked.

Malcolm hardly spends any time in the house at all – his life seems to now consist of dashing around London, between the offices at The Mirror and unspecified locations in Fleet Street. Jamie ends up writing most of the actual articles, and finds he rather enjoys it. He sits at the kitchen table in his vest with a cigarette stuck in the corner of his mouth, half-listening to Tristan gossiping away at the other end of the table.

“What are you writing?” Tristan asks once, tapping up a typewritten sheet with a long painted fingernail.

Jamie looks up briefly, and shrugs, “Something about traffic cones. It’s for Malc'.”

Tristan raises a penciled-in eyebrow, “You’re doing _his_ work?”

“Yup.”

“I’d try and get that in writing if I were you, luv.”

“Nah. No need.” Jamie flips through a few pages of Malcolm’s handwritten scribble. “He makes the notes, but I write the story, all of them, see? That way we both get paid.”

“The law is _very_ much not with you here.” Jamie gets a strict eyelinered glare from the other end of the table, “If he decides to walk out on you, you’ll be left with nothing. Get yourself a contract, young man, even if it’s just with him.”

Jamie raises it next time he’s with Malcolm, and to his utter shock they end up actually drawing up a contract, listing Jamie’s work and the contributions he’s made to Malcolm’s pay. It doesn’t make any difference to the work he's doing, but it does strangely enough make Jamie feel a little safer and securer.

He’s even more shocked when, a few weeks later, Malcolm takes him down to The Mirror and gets him his own job. “You might as well.” Malcolm points out when asked, “You write anyway. And I’ve got enough going on.”

“Enough going on with what…” Jamie tries helplessly and Malcolm shakes his head, taking a swig of beer.

“Just fucking stuff. All the shite. Seriously Jamie, you sort yourself out here. Fucking behave, write your shit, and write it well. You’re sorted now, alright?”

Jamie narrows his eyes, “Tristan been talking to you, has he? That mincing leek.”

Malcolm doesn’t meet his glare, “Maybe. Anyway, I’ve got to go shout at some people, you get on with your job.” And then he gives Jamie a strangely fond look, “I dragged you all the way down here, least I can do is see you don’t end up on a street corner if my plans all go tits up.”

“What are your plans?” Jamie asks, half exasperated, half curious, but Malcolm shakes his head.

“Later, later, let’s see if they actually fucking materialise first, shall we?”

London is a strange city. Jamie isn’t sure he ever gets properly used to it. He reads somewhere that London started out as a lot of little villages all joined together, and in a strange way that seems to be what the place still is. There are empty rich quarters pressed up tight next to virtual ghettos, ancient buildings next to modern eyesores, politician’s wittering about “back to basics” next to the centre of affairs and family scandal. The city is constantly running fast, wheels spinning around at breakneck speed and Malcolm spins with it.

Malcolm spends as much time as he can in Westminster now, until Jamie finally gets curious enough to try asking again, in one of the rare evenings when Malcolm is actually in the flat, “D’you actually have a job there, Malc', or are you hoping if you hang around for long enough they’ll assume you’re already employed and give you an office.”

“Ah fuck off.” Malcolm sighs, rubbing his temples with one hand and giving a crooked grin. “No, I do not have a job, yes I’m trying to get one. I’ve sort of got an unpaid job.”

“An unpaid job isn’t a job.” Jamie says bluntly. “Someone’s taking advantage of you, Malc'.”

To his surprise, Malcolm nods, “Yes, they absolutely fucking are.”

And then, finally, Malcolm tells him.

“See Jamie, at the moment, you’ve probably noticed what with your big important newspaper job, but the government is what you might call _completely fucking fucked_. Now if it were me, or you, if this was a street in Glasgow, it would be simple, see? They’re fucked, we’re in, job done. But with politics, it’s all got to be fucking complicated. It’s like a fight, sure but it’s fighting in mud, and there’s fucking sharks in the mud, and those sharks can join together to make larger, bigger, sharks, and it’s fucking _raining_.”

“Right.” Jamie nods, pretending to understand.

“See there’s a man.” Malcolm hesitates, and then abruptly shakes his head and changes tack, “Nah, forget all that. There’s basically this fucker called Steve Fleming who’s doing his job badly, and I’m doing his job better than him, which makes him look good, except it makes him also look _bad_ because he’s a fucking incompetent fucker. He wants my head on a plate, except he doesn’t because then I won’t be able to do his job for him, understand?”

Jamie nods again, “Not a fucking word, Malcolm.”

Malcolm laughs, and hands him a handwritten sheet, “Anyway, I don’t suppose you could put this in your paper tomorrow, eh?”

Jamie takes the sheet suspiciously, “This isn’t your handwriting…”

“No, it’s not.” Malcolm smiles, and Jamie suddenly wonders just who, in Malcolm’s tortured political metaphor, were the sharks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I stole the idea of Malcolm writing for The Mirror from Take Me to Fucking Church by teyla (http://archiveofourown.org/works/11153937). Go read it! It's awesome. I was originally going to have Malcolm writing for something else to reduce the blatant plagiarism but honestly, he probably would've gone for The Mirror.
> 
> It is genuinely true that John Major set up a Traffic Cone hotline, so that the public had a number to phone if they saw any Traffic Cones hanging around looking untidy.
> 
> I like to think that Malcolm picked up a fair few of his casual gay insults from Tristan :p


	3. 6 O’CLOCK MY PLACE WHITEHALL

Playing Steve Fleming should be easy, Malcolm knows, and it frustrates him that it _isn’t_ easy. The man is a creep, a letch, and not even particularly bright. The reason it’s hard to find a weak spot is because Steve Fleming is _all_ weak-spot, hidden behind a flustered-old-uncle exterior which hides a clumsy yet surprisingly sharp weapon beneath. Steve’s playing a new game in politics, a game that’s never existed before, a game called spin. The general idea of it might be old, but Steve plays it in new and fascinating ways, and Malcolm gets it, he does, he _really_ does.

He gets it well enough to realise that Steve Fleming is not a very good player.

At the moment though, Steve is all he has. Malcolm isn’t even being paid, but he’s making contacts, oh yes he’s making contacts. He knows all of the shadow cabinet at sight now, all of their names, backgrounds, and a fair few of their secrets. Steve Fleming cosies up to all the party leader hopefuls and sends Malcolm around like a trained attack dog to whip the rest of them into shape.

Steve Fleming’s Scottish Terrier, they call him, and Malcolm smiles with his teeth.

It’s a tricky game, becoming party leader, and Malcolm and Steve are both working frantically behind the scenes to make sure a decent candidate pulls through. It makes sense, Malcolm tries to explain to Jamie, because nobody wants to elect a man (or indeed woman) who seems too hungry for power. It takes a lot of leg-work to get to the top echelons of politics, but anyone actually seen _doing_ any of the said leg-work will be seriously looked down on.

So the leg-work falls to Steve and Malcolm.

“Tom Davies?” Steve floats, as he hurries through the House of Commons with Malcolm scuttling after him, “If we had to? Could we brush him up enough?”

“He’s got the clout, but not the personality.” Malcolm answers, by now able to mentally summon up anyone from the cabinet to the backbenches in his mind at an instant, “And he wants it too much.”

“He does want it.”

“So we tell him he’ll get it. But we can’t fucking give it to him. Tom Davies could lead this party, but heaven help us if he ever has to lead the country.”

It takes months of effort, a lot of cajoling of Tom, several expensive meals, a surprise heart-attack, and a nerve-wracking by-election before they finally manage to settle on a candidate. Young, fresh-looking, father-of-three, with a good track record, and a face that even Tristan agrees he would vote for.

Malcolm gets the text from Steve with the news that the rest of the party have agreed at 6am, sitting at the kitchen table alone, drumming his fingers on the tabletop. There’s a glass of whiskey by his elbow and the minute the little text comes through, Malcolm downs it and murmurs “Thank fuck.”

He rests his head against the cool surface of the table and closes his eyes briefly, it’s a success but now is not the time to stop, now is the time to start.

His phone beeps again, it’s another message from Steve: <He wants 2 meet u>.

“Yes…” Malcolm murmurs at the phone. “Oh fuck yes.”

He’s still technically an unemployed Scottish vagrant living in Soho, but he’s about to meet with the leader of the opposition, the man he fervently hopes will become the future Leader of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. He stumbles upstairs, silently opening the door and stepping around the bed with Jamie in, brushing his teeth and putting on one of his two smart suits. They’re the most expensive thing he currently owns, and he circulates them both in the hope nobody will notice he only has two of them.

When he gets back downstairs, Tristan is at the table in a silk robe pouring himself a cup of tea. He raises his eyebrows at Malcolm, “Up early?”

“Haven’t slept.” Malcolm yawns, “Chance of a coffee? I’d rather stay awake for this one.”

“Meeting anyone important?” Tristan pours out a second cup of tea and hands it across. “Anyone I know?”

“Yes, and no.” Malcolm shakes his head violently, trying to wake himself up. “Leader of the opposition.”

“Fantabulosa.” Tristan murmurs, adding, “I don’t know who that is or what it means, but I know it’s what you want to be doing. I also know you need to move house.”

Malcolm frowns, “What?”

“Don’t play coy. I’ve worked in the theatre all my life, and believe me I know the importance of reputation. You’re playing in Whitehall now, darling, do you really think you can get away with sharing a room, a _single_ room, with another man in Soho?”

Malcolm looks down at the table. “It’s not a problem. This man I’m about to meet, he wants to allow men to get married, alright? Married to each other. Don’t you tell me it’s a problem!”

“It will be a problem.” Tristan states archly, and then with more political foresight than Malcolm’s given him credit for, “The current government is riddled with gay scandals, you really think your precious leading man will care about upholding his standards if they threaten to undermine him? How principled is he?”

To his surprise, Malcolm gives a laugh in return. “How principled is he? That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it? Honestly, Tris, I don’t even know. I _hope_ he’s a dishonest man who’s good at pretending, but there’s an outside chance he really does believe everything he thinks about himself.”

“Would that not be better, in a politician?”

“Fuck no.” Malcolm feels more awake already, leaving the tea he pours himself another shot of whiskey and lets it animate him, flowing into him like rejuvenated blood, pulsing through his heart and veins, “Last thing you want is the people in power to think they deserve it. They start thinking that’s _why_ they’re in power.”

“And why are they in power?” Tristan asks, carefully moving away the whiskey bottle as Malcolm shrugs on his good jacket.

Malcolm shrugs, and then gives a grin, “Well this one will be because of me. Cheery bye, luv, I’ve got to save the world.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's no way I'm going to let a UK 20th century fic go by without a single word of Polari :p The 90s is way too late for it, but Tristan is old enough for the odd word to slip out.
> 
> In case anyone was wondering, this is in no way an exact picture of the UK political scene in the 1990s, it's just an uncannily good reflection. I've stuck to the conventions of the show; so for example while we all know who the "Young, fresh-faced, father of three" is I'm not allowed to drop his name. Other than John Major and the late Maggie, no real-life politicians have been named.
> 
> There was actually a 'surprise heart attack' involved in Tony Blair's rise to power, but I've had to play it down because sometimes real-life throws you a plot point that's just far too unbelievable for fiction.


	4. DO YOU WANT HITS OR DO YOU WANT MISSES

After all he’s learnt about spin, all the work he’s done cultivating friendships within the opposition and, through Jamie, in the media, it’s slightly frustrating to Malcolm that the government decides to make the job easy enough that even Steve Fleming could probably handle it alone. While his fresh young Leader does statesman-like speeches, opens hospitals, and kisses babies, John Major’s government lurches from crisis to crisis, from scandal to scandal, until even the most right-wing leaning newspapers give up and start ragging on him which, in Malcolm’s opinion, spoils the game entirely.

But he can’t complain too much, because finally the world is starting to shift in his favour and, more importantly, he has a job.

He can’t get a moment with the new party leader without Steve Fleming being around. Steve sticks to the man like a parasite, probably well aware that his position only lasts as long as he’s seen as indispensable. But even with Steve there, Malcolm has carefully, patiently, and politely made his case and he’s now officially a ‘Junior Adviser’ with all the political clout that 'Junior' implies. A job title though, as far as Malcolm is concerned, is only words on paper because his _actual_ job is to get this party into government.

“Ain’t no party like a government party.” Jamie quips, as Malcolm finally packs up his two good suits and miscellaneous paperwork in preparation to move out. “You take care alright? I don’t trust you on your own.”

“Ach I’ll be fine. Will you be fine here? Not going to scuttle back to Glasgow with a toyboy in tow?”

“Tris’ll look after me, and I’ve got my job at the Mirror, haven’t I? You’ll be all alone in some big posh flat. Try and sleep sometimes, and don’t fucking drink yourself to death.”

Malcolm’s sad to leave but he has to admit, grudgingly and unwillingly, that Tristan is right. He hates the admission, it feels like an admission of failure to himself, that this party he’s chosen to support can still be just as bigoted and prejudiced as the wankers in power.  Baby steps, he tells himself. Baby steps and we’ll get there in the end. Get into power first, that’s the trick. Get into power and stay there, _then_ we can start doing some good.

Even so he misses the little room in Soho deeply, because now there is no escape from Steve Fleming, the party madness, and the non-stop high-octane power-blast of things to do. They’re selling this man, this party leader, he’s not a person any more he’s a product, and it’s as much a matter of marketing as anything else.

“Cool Brittania!” Steve Fleming announces at about 3 am one morning, after a mammoth brainstorming session and a good bottle of red wine each, “Singers, pop stars, movers and shakers, this country is the place to be and he’s the man to run it. We need to make people proud to be British again.”

“Are you fucking _high_?” Malcolm snaps back.

But it works, it sort of works once they’ve hammered out the details and found some reasonably polished bands to take photos with. Suddenly the Leader of the Opposition is a rock star, which seems to upend everything Malcolm had previously thought about politics.

“People need to feel represented.” Malcolm offers, at 2 am a few mornings later. “The current government feels out of touch, disconnected. People need to see faces that look like them, the government needs to look like the people it fucking rules. We need more diversity in there, we need more women.”

“Are you _mad_?” Steve Fleming does a laugh that makes Malcolm want to punch him. “We want to show people we’re competent. The last thing we need is a cabinet full of flighty girls only chosen to fulfill some sort of misguided quota.”

It’s the first time Malcolm takes a stand, going behind Steve’s back. For the first time, he manages to get a meeting alone with the party leader, half an hour of precious time to convince the man that a diverse cabinet will allow them to help the people they need to, represent the country efficiently and (possibly the most convincing argument) win them more votes. The next shadow cabinet reshuffle sees more women promoted than ever before in politics. Malcolm feels proud, and even prouder when Jamie does the phone around the papers and the front pages are all carrying the news. The Sun is still insisting on calling them ‘babes’ but it’s a step forward at least, a step somewhere.

Steve Fleming is angry but powerless, and Malcolm doesn’t have time to stop and think about the implications of an angry Steve Fleming, because it’s on to the next session, the next re-brand. He’s got a new shadow cabinet to work with, and he has to make sure they’re all squeaky clean. He has a few more meetings with the party leader, and it isn’t until he comes out of a meeting one afternoon to see Steve Fleming waiting impatiently outside that he realises almost all of his meetings now are one-to-one, with no sign or word of Fleming.

“You can’t just say ‘education’ three times and pretend you’ve said something.” Steve Fleming snaps mid policy-meeting, “I know we’re about spin, but that’s _all_ spin, there needs to be substance in there as well.”

“There is, there is substance.” Malcolm bites down his angrier reply as there are other advisers present and he’s still too junior to get away with it. “Education is the substance.”

“It’s one word, Malcolm, _not_ a full sentence!”

“It is the way he says it.”

“Well I am the Campaign Director.” Steve says, with a kind of forced joviality, “I direct this operation and I, Malcolm Tucker, think its pigswill.”

“Ask him. Take it to him and ask him. He’ll love it. I guarantee you.”

Steve waggles his finger in Malcolm’s direction, “Don’t you think you’re getting just a little bit above yourself?”

“Do we want to get this fucking party elected or don’t we?” Malcolm snaps.

He’s relying on their shared mutual interest to stop Steve undermining him, and maybe Steve is relying on the same thing, because they still spend most of their time working together. They take the Party Manifesto and tear it to pieces, re-writing and re-branding as they go.

“At the end of the day, we do need a manifesto that will get us elected.” Steve Fleming points out, and Malcolm agrees, swigging down a squat little bottle of lager. “My party, right or wrong.”

“My party, right or left.” Malcolm growls, and to his surprise it’s good enough to make Steve laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cool Brittania!  
> Blair's Babes!  
> Education, education, education!  
> The rewording of the Labour Party Manifesto values including the repeal of Clause IV!
> 
> I would say that it takes me back, but I was still a kid in the mid-90s so most of this was just filtered-out words in the background.
> 
> "My party, right or left" is a John O'Farrell line, but it's fantastic so I've stolen it for fanfic.


	5. COME ON AND ROCK THE VOTE FOR ME

The months leading up to the 1997 election are the most stressful and painful months of Malcolm’s life. It seems too easy, that’s the problem, the government is tearing itself apart and the possibility of success frightens him. It seems like any moment now things will _have_ to go wrong, everything will come sliding down, and all the previous years of work will be finished.

Malcolm calls Jamie, Jamie calls an editor at The Sun, Malcolm has a few discrete meetings with a few discrete people, and it doesn’t even occur to him, at this point, to tell Steve Fleming what he’s up to. Malcolm’s official title is still simply “Junior Adviser” but nobody would ever call him that to his face. Unofficially, he’s the joint campaign manager, although just how ‘joint’ he is at this stage is anyone’s guess.

The next day, The Sun launches its first major pro-Labour campaign and Malcolm celebrates with an entire bottle of champagne. It’s a work in progress though, he doesn’t trust anyone in the Murdoch Empire as far as he can throw them. They have to be gently courted, seduced, strung along. He tells Jamie this in no uncertain terms, and gets a flippant reply of “Oh aye, I’ll court the fuckers.” which doesn’t entirely reassure him.

But he trusts Jamie and besides, he doesn’t have the time to spend on it. Now he has to write speeches, plan appearances, whip the rest of the newspapers into shape, not to mention the entire party. To a certain extent he _has_ to trust Jamie, because he certainly doesn’t trust anyone else. Most importantly, he doesn’t trust Steve Fleming, which is difficult given the amount of time they spend working closely together.

The Evening Standard posts a list of 50 questions about the current opposition manifesto they want answering. Five hours before it’s published, thanks to Jamie, Malcolm has the questions in his hand. The minute the story breaks, they’re on the airwaves giving answers, and Malcolm is on the phone screaming at the editor, “Maybe you should ask the _actual_ _government_ a few of these fucking questions, ever think of that?”

They take the battle-bus and travel around the country campaigning. Now Malcolm has to trust Jamie more than ever to keep an eye on Fleet Street while Malcolm hangs around behind Steve Fleming. Steve Fleming loves it, waking up in a new place every morning, courting the crowds and waving at the masses. Malcolm lurks in the background, scowling, avoiding the cameras, and gently reminding the future hopeful for Leader of Great Britain and Northern Ireland that the green mushy stuff on the side of the fish and chips is _not_ in fact guacamole. Campaigning is vital but Malcolm doesn’t enjoy it. He feels twitchy so far away from Westminster, so far away from all the daft ministers who, he’s fairly sure, will all be doing daft things in his absence.

“When you’ve finished in Fleet Street, can you not pop into Westminster?” He snaps at Jamie from a pay-phone just outside Torquay, “Give those idiots a bollocking for me?”

“They don’t let common hacks into the Houses of Parliament.” Jamie responds, and Malcolm can hear the teasing laugh in his voice.

“Then I’ve got to get you in there, soon as I can. The Sun still playing ball?”

“Aye.”

“Tell them to keep playing ball. Or I’ll have theirs in a vice.”

As soon as the bus drops them back into London Malcolm is away, charging down corridors slamming open doors, and shouting left and right. It makes Steve laugh, but by the end of the day Malcolm is satisfied that the ship is watertight. He’s concentrating so much on winning the election, that it never occurs to him to watch his own back. He can only fight one battle, and this battle is the most important one, that focuses all his energy and concentration.

“You really believe in him, don’t you?” Steve says one evening, watching Malcolm re-drafting a speech with a glass of bourbon. “You really believe in _him_ , as a man, as a leader.”

“You know what Steve, I do. I really do.” Later on in life he’ll learn not to be so honest with people he can’t trust.

“The thing is, Mister Tucker, nothing is ever certain is it? Nothing is ever finalised. We believe in him, of course we do, but we need to consider all avenues really.”

Malcolm doesn’t realise it at the time, but he’s playing one game, a game called ‘Get This Fucker Elected’ and Steve Fleming is playing another game, a game called ‘Steve Fleming Keeps His Job’.

“It’s just,” Steve continues, “If we don’t outright win this election, if it moves to a hung parliament, we’ll need to consider all options.”

Malcolm frowns, “You think that’ll happen?”

“I don’t know what’ll happen.” Steve spreads his arms magnanimously, “But if we could maybe consider the prospect of forming a coalition, if we could get some traction going, open a few avenues, just make sure the option is there…”

There isn’t much time left in the day, but Malcolm manages to squeeze a few more hours in, grease a few palms, send out a few nods and winks. As Steve says, it makes sense. The polls are on their side, the papers are on their side, everything seems to be going well and it’s making Malcolm paranoid. Something has to go wrong, surely, something.

Election day dawns warm and fair and all Malcolm can think is _the_ _turnout_. Jamie collects up the mornings papers and sends them all across in a big bundle. **Landslide predicted for Labour!** screams at him in black and white from multiple angles. The day passes in a blur, too fast and too intense, too mixed and broken in his mind, because that day the whiskey started in the coffee and continued through the entire proceedings.

He remembers Steve screaming down a phone, “Even the Sun, we’ve got the Sun on side for you, I got the Sun to fall right into line, didn’t I?”

He remembers Tom Davies, of all people, snapping at him “What have you been doing talking about coalitions? Does _he_ know you’ve been talking about coalitions?”

He remembers Jamie phoning him up at midday and yelling, “Make sure you vote you fuckwit”.

He thinks he remembers, although he’s less sure about this one, Steve Fleming crowding him up against a wall with a hand a little too far up his thigh sneering, “You’ve been useful enough for this, I suppose, but why don’t you leave it to the big boys, eh? Why don’t you leave the actual process of government, once we get in, to the people who know how to run it?”

He remembers the mood as the polls close; the excitement, the buzz, the atmosphere that crackled through him like electricity. He remembers feeling high, running on fumes and too little sleep. He remembers Steve Fleming filling his glass up yet again and shouting just a little too loud, “Those Evening Standard questions, eh? You missed a trick there.”

He doesn’t remember collapsing like a puppet with broken strings as Labour take some of the safest Tory seats in the country. He doesn’t remember being pushed into a corner, discretely hidden under Steve Fleming’s jacket. He doesn’t remember Jamie picking him up and lifting him away even though Jamie has an ugly bruise on his shoulder apparently caused by Malcolm trying to claw his way back into the briefing room.

He misses the final decisive victory. He misses the historic moment. He misses it all.

And the next day, while Malcolm is lying on the floor of a dingy flat in Soho in a semi-comatose hangover, his new leader is waving to the crowds, with Steve Fleming smug and oily by his side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's an old joke, which is probably sadly not true, that Peter Mandelson once pointed to a side of mushy peas at a fish and chip shop and asked if he could have some of the guacamole. 
> 
> The Sun is a Right Wing British Newspaper run by an evil man who thinks he controls the way people vote. In the 80s and 90s he actually might have done. His power has definitely wobbled in recent years, probably because Millennials don't buy newspapers anymore.


	6. WE'VE WAITED SUCH A LONG TIME

If it had been down to Steve Fleming Malcolm knows he would have been fired, but it isn’t down to Steve Fleming it’s down to the man who is now Prime Minister. Steve has done his best, claiming credit behind Malcolm’s back, down-talking his successes, and blaming him entirely for ‘treacherous’ coalition talks, but at the end of the day it isn't Fleming's call. Fleming can’t even demote him, because he’s still technically a Junior Adviser and there isn’t anywhere else lower to go.

It’s the second time in Malcolm’s life where the world has shaken him down and given him a slap. The first slap was when he’d bailed Jamie McDonald out of prison, seeing him all huddled in a cell with a scowling bruised face and a stupid fat policeman laughing at him. That had jump-started him into politics.

The second slap sets him on the road to sobriety.

He knows he’s been avoiding it, avoiding facing the problem that’s been looming recognisably large in his life for a long while. Everyone drinks, he tells himself, and besides he needs _something_ to keep him sane. It doesn’t feel like a problem and he has no time to deal with it; until it very much is a problem and suddenly he has even less time because now he’s fighting against Steve Fleming.

Steve _fucking_ Fleming.

He can’t even make it to the office on the day of the election success, and thank fuck the next day is a weekend, because it gives him two days to sober himself up and book himself into a private clinic that agrees to see him on Sunday. By Monday morning he’s freshly washed, presentable, and apologetic; able to deal with Steve’s snide little jibes, the career-damaging concern from Tom, and a short snappy dressing-down from the new PM.

By the end of the week he’s attended his first Alcoholics Anonymous meeting.

The next weekend, Malcolm pours himself a glass of whiskey and sets it in front of him on the table. Then he reads through the full AA 12-step program and all the accompanying literature he's been given. When he’s finished he picks up the whiskey glass, looks at it, then pours the whiskey down the sink. It’s a subtle little act of self-flagellation, his own punishment for letting the drink control him so far that it almost destroyed everything he’s been working towards.

He tells Jamie and nobody else. Jamie sprawls on Malcolm’s sofa, pen stuck behind his ear, phone on the glass coffee table next to the fruit-bowl, and reads through the 12-steps. When he’s finished he gives Malcolm an appraising look.

“What, no drink at _all_?”

“Not a drop. Fanta and red bull from now on.”

Jamie eyes the paper skeptically, “And you believe this, do you? All this about a Power Greater Than Yourself that will restore you to fucking sanity?”

“What I believe or don’t believe has nothing to do with the issue, does it?” Malcolm snaps, glancing at his phone, “Shouldn’t you be shouting at someone?”

Jamie licks his lips nervously, “It’s not going to work if you don’t believe it. I mean, Malc, if you ever did want to talk, you know, about God and all-“

“I don’t want to talk about God.”

“Yeah but it says here you might do.”

“I don’t want to talk about God, the virgin fucking Mary or the baby fucking Jesus now get on the phone.” Malcolm doesn’t sound angry though, he sounds tired and fed up, and Jamie spares him a worried glance.

“You sure about this Malc’? This … sobriety thing. Sounds dangerous to me.”

“Right now there is a higher power than me alright, it’s Steve fucking Fleming that’s who it is. Listen if I can defeat _this_ …” Malcolm waves his arm vaguely around in an attempt to capture all the alcohol that he’s now removed from the house, “I can defeat fucking anything, does that makes sense?”

“Oh aye, yeah, I see. Biggest enemy sort of thing?” Jamie answers desperately, not sure he does understand.

“That sort of thing.” Malcolm responds grimly, and Jamie hopes that that’s enough. It seems like it’ll have to be, because Malcolm doesn’t take any further time off work, just slots in AA meetings and doctor’s appointments around the frantic working schedule he already has.

“What are you working for?” Jamie asks, “You won the election, wasn’t that the whole point?”

“That was the easy part.” Malcolm admits as they walk through St James’s park, “Then we were all fighting the same enemy. Now we’re in charge, and we’re fighting _everybody_ up to and including each other. Jamie, I need you to do something for me.”

“’Course.” Jamie frowns a bit surprised Malcolm has even asked. Usually he just phones up and snaps orders.

“I need you to apply for a job.”

“A – a what?”

“A job.” Malcolm hands him a printed sheet of paper, “Junior Press Officer. At number 10. I need you in there with me because at the moment I am fucking drowning.”

Jamie frowns at the job description and then waves the paper at him, “Is this what you are, then?”

“No, I’m below that.” Malcolm snaps back, and Jamie hides a grin, “Don’t smirk like that, yes, you will technically outrank me, but that doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter a fucking inch. You get in there, and you do what I say, and we get Steve Fleming out and we get the rest of them knocked into shape because at the moment it’s a fucking riot. They all think like you just did, think their jobs are over just because we’re in power.”

“And … they aren’t?” Jamie manages, before Malcolm interrupts him in a fit of animated anger.

“Of course they bloody aren’t! How long do you think we’ll keep The Sun onside for? A year? A month? A week? How long before someone fucks up, how long before the PM fucks up? He’s the best thing we have, if he falls down he’ll fall _hard_ and we cannot let that happen. We’ve got to make that boy fireproof, we’ve got to make him fucking _Teflon_ , alright? And I can’t do that with Steve Fleming wittering around making shite decisions. He’s already managed to upset the whole of Scotland, did you see that?”

“Was that the last speech, that one where the PM compared the Scottish Parliament to a ladies tea-morning? Aye I saw it. Fucking train-wreck. That was Fleming?”

“Of course it was Fleming, you think I’d write something like that?” Malcolm shakes his head, calming down a little as they approach Westminster. “What he does is good, I’m not denying that, but he can’t fucking do it with any kind of basic fucking competence. And I can’t do _my_ job if he’s sulking around in the background trying to get me fired. He has to go.”

“Isn’t he the Campaign Director though, I mean that sounds pretty senior to me, Malc'.” Jamie gives him a bit of a worried look. “Don’t want to bite off too much at once.”

“You walk into Whitehall and ask any bugger there who ran that campaign.” Malcolm growls. “You ask them who they answer to, who makes them jump. They won’t say Steve Fleming.”

Jamie nods, slowly. He normally would obey Malcolm without question, but he’s rather got used to his job at The Mirror. He likes it, he gets on well with people, and now Malcolm wants him to throw it all away to take on a role with the aim of sacking his own boss. “Is this, you definitely need me there then. I mean what if I don’t get this job?”

“Don’t get the job – of course you’ll get the fucking job.” Malcolm snaps, exasperated. “I’ll make sure you get the fucking job. Jamie – what do you do at the moment, really? You write lots of nice little words and they go in your nice little newspaper and people read them and then flatten them out to line the bins, or make papier-maché models of the fucking Eiffel tower or whatever people do with newspapers nowadays. What I’m asking you to do now isn’t write the news, now you can _own_ the news. _You_ decide the news. You,” a bony finger pokes at his chest, “Get to crack the whip and make all of them fucking dance. You want to stay a reporter, fine, stay a reporter. Spend your life hanging around the back door of number 10 hoping someone slides you out a fucking press release. Remember the election campaign? How fucking exciting that was, yeah? Well that’s all over now; you’ll be reporting on fucking amusingly-shaped vegetables and ministers hair-nets or whatever for the next four years of your life _or_ , Jamie, _or_ , you’ll be flying so high above the news you can piss down on Rupert Murdoch’s wrinkled little scrotum of a head, what do you think?”

“Alright, alright!” Jamie’s laughing before he’s even finished. “Didn’t need the full sales pitch, aye? Two Musketeers we are; all for one and sod the rest.”

Malcolm smiles, and Jamie can see a hint of relief in that smile. “Aye, well. No point in spoiling a good speech. Not when I’ve been practicing it in front of my wee toothbrush mirror all week.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was first pointed out to me by duckodeathreturns that we never actually see Malcolm drink in the entire canon. Even in circumstances where he'd be expected to (Ben Swain's book-launch, the night after he looses his job, etc). Armando Iannucci said in the voice-overs that the dude Malcolm talks to in s3ep8 about his job prospects is meant to be his AA buddy. It's always been my headcanon that Malcolm went through a big change in his drinking habits pre-series, and that it was related to Steve Fleming in some way.
> 
> "All for one and sod the rest" isn't my line either, it's from Auf Wiedersehen Pet :p


	7. GET THEM ALL TO SNIFF THIS

Getting Jamie a job is easy, Malcolm just approaches Steve Fleming the day of the interview, all curiosity and faux-concern. “I heard you’re interviewing that lad from the Mirror?”

“I’m not sure that’s any of your concern, Mister Tucker.” Steve smarms at him.

“Just, I dunno, I mean he’s a good enough reporter, I did a bit of work with him when we had that thing with The Sun going on but I feel he’d make my job a lot harder, if you know what I mean. Constantly having to check up on him.”

“The hiring decisions are none of your concern.” Steve answers severely, and then with a twinkle in his eye, “Are you worried I’m going to replace you with another angry Scottish man?”

“No, no, just … I’d prefer someone I knew I could work with a bit easier, you know?”

The next day, Jamie is hired.

Malcolm knows it’s not a big blow that’ll topple Steve Fleming, it’s death by a thousand cuts. Ministers need scandals, big rock-the-boat stuff that’ll hound them out, but Steve is in a boat he doesn’t particularly want rocked too hard. Instead, he just continues being as ruthlessly efficient at his job as he can be, working with Jamie behind the scenes to effectively shut Steve Fleming out of the action.

A lot of the work, Malcolm reflects, is actually done by Steve himself, which is why Malcolm feels no sense of guilt at all in bringing the man down. Steve makes bad calls and insists on following through bad decisions, prioritising unimportant details and basing his choices on personal preference. It doesn’t make for a good mix. It might be workable, Malcolm knows, if Steve had a truly dedicated and loyal second-in-command to support him and smooth things over for him. Unfortunately for Steve, all he has is Malcolm, who is trying to get rid of him.

The first time Malcolm manages to get a meeting alone with the PM, he leaves with the post of Senior Press Officer.

After that it isn’t just Malcolm and Jamie who are shutting Steve out, it’s everyone. The people who work at the number 10 press office are bright enough to see which way the wind is blowing, and right now it’s blowing due-Malcolm.

Steve Fleming stalks around and rages and frets. Malcolm writes five speeches in 24 hours for a highly successful series of political talks in Ireland. Steve Fleming argues the details of a large Dome in Greenwich, Malcolm organises a full families-present BBQ afternoon with the President of the United States. Whenever Steve Fleming comes into the office, Jamie makes sure everyone else is busy with a meeting, or loudly discussing some important business which Steve hasn’t yet been told about.

Steve Fleming doesn’t exactly resign, and the PM doesn’t exactly sack him, but they spend two hours together in the PM’s office in Downing Street and by the end of it Steve Fleming comes out tight lipped and angry and won’t speak to Malcolm. Malcolm writes one of the best press releases he’s ever written, full of grateful platitudes about the amazing work done by Mr. Fleming, the outstanding legacy he will leave behind, and the true happiness which his colleagues wish him in his new career, after all the invaluable work he’s done for both the PM and the party. It’s a masterpiece, and Jamie has to duck out of the room while it’s being read to stop himself collapsing into laughter.

There’s a celebration once Steve’s left – Jamie breaks out the beers, finds a bottle of fanta for Malcolm, and the whole press office gathers around. It’s almost terrifying, Malcolm thinks, how pleased and excited everyone is. He wonders what the mood will be when the time eventually comes (as he knows it will) for him to leave. Will it be all dignified speeches and sombreness, or will there also be celebrations, cheers and impromptu drinking.

Everyone looks up at him, and Jamie bangs his bottle against the desk and shouts, “Ding, dong, the bastard’s gone. Speech!”

Malcolm looks around at them all. He’ll remember it, in later years, as the best time of his life. A new job, a new PM, on the cusp of a new century. The whole country seems invigorated, the winds of change blowing away the old Tory cobwebs and ringing in something new.

“What are you all looking at me for?” He growls, “Haven’t we got a country to run? Go on, go! Someone get me that list of potential dates for the Middle East tour; find out when that bugger from Northern Ireland’s free; Donald where the fuck are those healthcare stats?”

The great churning machine at Number 10 starts turning. Malcolm Tucker nods at Jamie, goes into his office, and picks up his brand shiny new BlackBerry 850. The wheels have all been set in motion and now it’s time for them to spin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first BlackBerry device came out in 1999 which juuuust about works with the timeline set here. I really wanted a 'final shot' of Malcolm picking up that BlackBerry!
> 
> Steve Fleming was absolutely involved in the Millennium Dome in some capacity.
> 
> I am incredibly proud of this story. Between this and "The Adventures Of Mad Sweeney and Long Lankin" I've now written two multi-chaptered short-stories with a nice tight plot and flow and everything. I've also filled in a good few gaps in my modern history knowledge!


End file.
